


Sins of the Father

by ArtemisRayne



Series: May Look at a King - A Newsies Felisian AU [25]
Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Felisians, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Backstory, Cat/Human Hybrids, Childhood Trauma, Comfort, Confessions, Dark, Domestic Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Felisian, Felisian!Jack, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Interrogation, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trials
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-09-26 11:53:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20389267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisRayne/pseuds/ArtemisRayne
Summary: As he grips the wrinkled letter in one hand, Davey rolls the words around in his head for a moment, trying to figure out where to begin, and finally settles on, "Who's Francis Sullivan?"Whipping his tail around to curl protectively in his lap, Jack seems to shrink in on himself and clears his throat. "My dad."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There's been a lot of fluff going on lately, sort of in preparation for this. This is dark, and please check the tags for trigger warnings if there's anything that might upset you. That said, as horrible as this is, I'm really excited to finally share this chapter - it's been a very long time in the making.

When Davey's phone goes off in his pocket, halfway into his Tuesday morning lecture, he almost doesn't check it. This History of American Journalism class is actually turning out to be one of his favorites, and most of the people in his life don't call, preferring text to avoid interrupting his classes. So if anything, it's most likely one of those stupid robocalls. 

Just in case, though, Davey slips his phone out to glance at the caller ID. A sudden ominous chill curls in the depths of Davey's stomach. Scooping up his things, Davey darts out of the classroom as inconspicuously as possible, and he slides to answer the call the moment he's in the hallway. 

"Jack, you okay?" he asks, trying to keep his anxiety out of his voice. Apart from FaceTime, Jack _never_ calls unless he absolutely has to; like most felisians, he hates calls because cell phones aren't designed for their comfort. Davey can count the number of times Jack's called him in the last year on one hand. 

"Hey, Davey." The phone is on speaker, Davey can tell by the faint echo, but even the crappy connection doesn't mask the hoarseness in Jack's voice. Davey can't stop a soft, concerned noise. "Sorry, you weren't in class, right?" 

"It's fine," Davey says dismissively. "What's wrong?" 

"M'fine, it's okay," Jack says, and it almost sounds convincing for a moment. "I just - was you gonna come home 'tween classes?"

"On my way already," Davey cuts across him, speed-walking out of the building. He pins the phone between his ear and shoulder while he haphazardly stuffs his textbook into his backpack as he goes. "You sure you're okay?" 

Jack makes a small noise that Davey thinks is supposed to be a laugh, but it sounds thin and shaky. "Yeah, I'm good. Just-" He clears his throat. "Could use some comp'ny, if you ain't busy." 

"Okay, I'll be there in a few minutes," Davey vows. "Just - I'll see you in a bit, okay?" 

"See ya," Jack responds, and then, right before hanging up, "Thanks." 

Stuffing his phone back into his pocket, Davey breaks into a run. It's probably nothing that bad, nothing like the worst-case scenarios spiraling through Davey's brain, but he doesn't stop. His backpack, weighed down by too many textbooks, thumps heavily against his spine as he sprints off campus and onto the streets of Manhattan. 

Davey manages to dart through the crowds and foot traffic to the nearest subway station. His heart hammers beneath his ribs as he waits impatiently for the train to reach his stop, drumming his fingers on his thighs and jogging his feet in place. By the time he finally makes it to their apartment, digging out his keys to let himself in, Davey's a little worried he's going to have either an asthma attack or a heart attack, whichever comes first.

Jack is easy to find, curled up on one end of the sofa with his old patchwork quilt - the one he only ever digs out when he doesn't feel good - draped over his shoulders. His legs are drawn up to his chest, tail wrapped over his bare feet, and he's chewing on the corner of his thumbnail. The felisian doesn't look up when Davey comes in, although an ear is pivoted expectantly toward the door which tells Davey he heard him coming up the hall. 

"Hey, Jacky," Davey says uncertainly, shrugging off his backpack and leaving it by the door. "What's the matter?" 

This finally manages to pull Jack's attention up, and he offers a stiff smile beneath red-rimmed eyes. "Nothin', I just-" He sighs, dropping his hand to fidget with his tail - another telltale sign of nerves. "Don't feel great, don't wanna be alone," Jack admits softly, his ears folding back in embarrassment. "Sorry if you were-" 

"I told you, it's fine," Davey interrupts insistently, crossing the room to sit beside Jack. "What can I do to help?" 

"Just be here," the felisian says, still shy and self-conscious, and it comes out more like a question than anything. Jack's trembling, and Davey suddenly realizes why Jack chose to call instead of text; it must be hard to hit buttons with his hands shaking like that. "Just want the comp'ny. Don't wanna be 'lone with my head righ'now, ya know?" 

Davey nods, understanding completely. It's not like he's never dealt with the torture of his own thoughts attacking him before, that agonizing pain of his self-doubt and anxiety hurting far worse than anything physical ever could. "Okay, yeah, I think I can do that," Davey says, smiling, and he's pleased when Jack mirrors it out of habit. "Need a distraction? Got a thing from Netflix this morning about a new movie, sounded like something you might like." 

When Jack grins and ducks his head, Davey reaches for the remote. Once it's playing, Davey settles back into the corner of the sofa arm and gestures Jack over. The felisian uncurls from his ball to stretch out on his stomach, tucked securely into the V of Davey's legs with his head resting on Davey's sternum. 

Davey knows there's something more going on, that there's obviously something on Jack's mind that he's struggling to deal with, but Davey doesn't push it. Jack will tell him when he's ready. The felisian might struggle with opening up sometimes, but he always does, in the end. For now, Davey just wants to give him the support he needs. Jack has always drawn comfort from touch, even the smallest gestures, so Davey curls one hand around Jack's while the other cards gently through the hair at the nape of his neck. 

The movie is actually pretty decent, what parts Davey pays attention to, and it manages to drag a few laughs out of Jack. Not his typical, head-thrown-back bursts of laughter, but it's better than nothing. Jack slowly relaxes during the movie, burrowing into the warmth of Davey's body. At some point halfway through, his tail, which was kept tucked close to one leg, shifts to let the tip sway lazily over the edge of the cushions. 

When the movie ends, Jack wriggles, nuzzling against Davey's stomach before he pushes up onto his elbows. "Thank you," he says sincerely. "I - needed this. Needed you." 

The comment makes Davey smile. "Of course, you know I'm here for you anytime," Davey says, reaching up and brushing his thumb over a freckled cheekbone. "I love you." 

The felisian smiles softly and crawls a bit further up the sofa to kiss Davey. He tips his head, kissing a line down the corner of Davey's jaw and onto his neck before nosing the skin there. "Love you too, Davey," Jack murmurs into his throat. 

Jack inhales deeply - and Davey's stomach flips because he knows that when Jack does that, he's breathing in Davey's scent. Jack does it to calm himself, heightened senses soothed by familiar smells he associates with safety, but it still always makes some base animal instinct in Davey go crazy. Sneaking one last kiss there, Jack sits back onto his heels. 

Davey sits up, reaching for Jack's hand again. "You don't have to talk about it," he says because he can see the way Jack's steeling himself. "It's fine. Just tell me how I can help." 

"Youse too good to me," Jack says fondly. Flicking his ears distractedly, Jack takes a deep breath and says, "One sec, I'mma be right back."

Davey watches curiously as Jack walks over to the dining table and grabs something from the floor underneath. It's a crumpled ball of paper, and the felisian smooths it out as he comes back to the sofa. Davey wants to ask, but he doesn't want to push. Jack chuckles, reclaiming his seat on the couch and holding out the paper. "I didn't bring it over just for shits and giggles," Jack teases when Davey doesn't reach to take it, but when Davey looks up, tense lines are bracketing the felisian's smile, his ears folded back. 

"Are you sure?" Davey asks because he has to be certain. 

"Just take the stupid letter," Jack responds with a hint of a laugh, one ear flitting before it tucks back again. 

Nodding, Davey accepts the severely wrinkled paper. There's a fancy letterhead with a seal, declaring that the sender is the New York City Department of Corrections. Davey's brow furrows as his gaze pans down to the body of the letter. 

> _Mr. Jack Kelly,_
> 
> _This letter is to inform you that Mr. Francis John Sullivan, Sr. has been scheduled for a parole hearing on the date of 8th October 2019. Your presence is requested at the hearing to review your testimony in the case. If you cannot be present, please contact our office or your legal representative at your earliest convenience to arrange an alternative... _

The rest of the letter, as far as Davey can tell, is instructions on how to contact the parole office as well as a lot of other legal terminology that he only vaguely recognizes. Licking his lips, Davey glances up to find Jack watching him apprehensively. Davey rolls the words around in his head for a moment, trying to figure out where to begin, and finally settles on, "Who's Francis Sullivan?" 

Whipping his tail around to curl protectively in his lap, Jack seems to shrink in on himself and clears his throat. "My dad." 

Davey's eyes widen, and he looks at the letter again, the words suddenly taking on a whole new meaning. Although Jack's mentioned his father before - always with anger and pain and more than a little fear - he's never actually talked about anything other than vague allusions to his childhood. They've been together for a year now, but it's always been one of those topics that's avoided, an unspoken taboo that's as much Davey's choice as Jack's; he hates seeing the pain whenever Jack drags those memories into the light. Davey knows that something terrible must've happened for Jack to end up in the foster system, but he's always assumed it's because Jack's birth parents are both dead, like Spot and Crutchie's parents are. 

Jack suddenly chuckles, a forced, awkward sound, and adds, "Well, and me too, I guess, technically." 

"You too?" Davey asks, confused. 

"Francis," says the felisian, disdain heavy in his tone. "I - was my name too, when I was born. Francis John Sullivan, Jr." He scoffs. "Shit name, right?" He lets out a long, slow breath, combing his hand through his hair. "Was first thing I got rid'a when I went inta' the system. Didn't want nothin' tyin' me to that bastard no more." 

Davey frowns, tossing the letter onto the coffee table. He reaches out to link his hand with Jack's, brushing his thumb across his knuckles. "You've never really talked about him," he says uncertainly. "I always thought he was dead." 

Jack scoffs bitterly. "I wish." He swallows, and suddenly, his lower lip is trembling. His gaze fixes on their joined hands as he continues, "Whole world'd be better off if he was. Cruel fuckin' bastard. Sorta person who made a place betta by leavin' it. Don't got a single good mem'ry of that man." 

"Jack," Davey starts when he sees the tears welling in Jack's amber eyes, but the felisian shakes his head. As much as it makes Davey's chest ache, he understands. Sometimes you need to talk about these things, even if it hurts. Or _especially_ when it hurts.

"He had a temper," Jack says darkly. "Real bad. I mean - I's toldja how he got 'bout bein' felisian." Davey swallows hard and nods; he vividly remembers Jack's confession that he was raised on the idea that felisians are some sort of lesser species, something to be ashamed of and despised. He also remembers the implications that his father had hurt him repeatedly for the fact, and was the cause of the multiple poorly-healed breaks in Jack's tail, among other things. 

"Anythin' would get him goin', didn't matter whether it was me or my mom, and he didn't play nice," Jack forces out. "Got off on it, I think. He'd beat ya for cryin' when he hit ya, but if you tried bein' tough, he'd just hit ya longer for bein' stubborn." He cuts off, shaking his head, and roughly drags a hand across his eyes. 

"And my mom wasn't much better, almost never did nothin' to stop it. Didn't get it at the time, but now I'm older, I think she was just a'ready broke, ya know? She'd get this look sometimes when he got real bad like she was someplace else, escapin' inside her head, I think. I learned quick not to waste breath askin' for her help. She'd take care of me after, but didn't do nothin' to stop it while it was goin'. On'y time she ever stepped in is if he broke somethin', when I went down and couldn't get back up."

Davey feels like he's going to be sick, listening to Jack recount these awful things with an attempt at detached indifference. It's probably the only way Jack can bring himself to talk about it, pretending that he doesn't care or that he's talking about someone else, even if it's not working completely. Davey scoots closer until their knees brush and he cradles Jack's hand in both of his. 

Jack bites his lip, visibly collecting himself. "I was there when it happened," he says, quieter. "Old man was mad, screamin' and hollerin' and throwin' shit around. And for some reason, I dunno what she'd done, but he was all sorts'a pissed at my mom. Remember she kept tryna talk him down, but he wasn't havin' it, just kept gettin' more fired up. I tried-" 

The felisian chokes, swallows, tries again. "I tried ta' step in, get him a li'l mad at me so he was less mad at her, but all that got me was a black eye and a missin' tooth. And then my mom, she - he'd picked me up by the throat, slammed me 'gainst the wall so hard it dented, and she _hissed_. Don't think she even meant it, just happened 'cause she got scared. And somethin' in his eyes just snapped. He got her by the neck, was squeezin' and screamin', and then he threw her down so hard, and her head come down on the corner the table." 

"Oh my God," Davey gasps out because he can't help himself. He has to press the back of his wrist to his mouth for a second, breathing deeply through his nose to stop his stomach from rebelling. "Oh my God, Jacky." 

"I watched him kill her," Jack says, suddenly fierce and furious behind the tears, gemstone bright eyes flashing and words coming out trimmed in a dangerous growl. "Right in front'a me. And I was too scared ta' move, and he was freakin', and then the cops was there. Neighbors had called 'cause all the noise. I wouldn't talk to the cops, a'first, 'cause I was scared he'd find out. Scared he'd kill me too for tellin'. Only reason I ever said was 'cause the caseworker, she promised if I told 'em everything, they'd make sure he went far away where he couldn't hurt me.

"So I told 'em everythin', and ya know what? It didn't fuckin' do shit. His lawyer was a fuckin' spider, spun all these stories 'bout crimes of passion and heat of the moment, said the old man found out she'd been havin' an affair and he just lost it. Made it sound like he was just a normal Joe and it was all an accident. And that dirty lawyer got him pled down to manslaughter." 

Jack's voice breaks, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath, drying his eyes again. "All that, everythin' he done to us, and ya know what he got? Twenty years. That's it. _Twenty years._ And then I get that letter, and they says they wanna let him out early for _good behavior._ He's a fuckin' murderer, and they wanna let him out like it's nothin'. I only ever felt safe knowin' that bastard's locked up and now they's gonna let him out, and Davey, I'm so fuckin' _scared_." 

Davey can't take it anymore, pulling Jack against him, and the felisian falls apart. Shaking with full-body sobs, Jack buries his face in Davey's shoulder, arms wrapped so tightly around Davey it's almost painful, but Davey just hugs him closer. Davey's crying nearly as hard as Jack now, his voice catching while he whispers soft, aimless reassurances into the felisian's hair. 

The more that Davey's learned about Jack's childhood, the more he knew that something terrible must've happened to put him into the foster system, but this is a thousand times worse than he ever dared think. Davey had a hard enough time wrapping his mind around the abuse - both physical and mental - but this? To watch his mother die at the hands of a man who'd terrorized his every day? 

Once again, Davey can't help but wonder how Jack turned out to be a functional adult. He makes a mental note to thank Medda, Jack's foster mom, the next time he sees her because she is clearly some kind of angel.

Jack is still trembling by the time he runs out of tears, and Davey can feel him forcing long, slow breaths to steady himself. Davey keeps one arm looped around the felisian's back, the other hand combing tenderly through his hair. It takes a few minutes longer before Jack relaxes his grip on Davey's shirt enough to reach up and wipe his eyes. "Sorry." 

"Hey, no, I don't think so," Davey interjects firmly. "If I'm not allowed to apologize for that, neither are you." There's a soft huff, a pale attempt at a laugh, from where Jack's face is still tucked against his shoulder. "I know the words never help, but Jacky, I'm so sorry," Davey murmurs quietly. "What you've been through - absolutely no one should go through that, let alone a little kid." And then, before he can stop himself, the tentative question tumbles out, "How old were you?" 

"Seven," Jack replies. 

Davey curses under his breath again, rubbing soothing circles over Jack's spine. At seven, Davey had gotten a new parent; at seven, Jack'd lost both of his. Davey presses a kiss to the side of Jack's head, leaving his cheek resting on the felisian's skull, just below his folded ear. "What can I do?" Davey asks. "How can I help?" 

Jack makes another huff, nuzzling the side of Davey's neck and then straightening up. His cheeks are flushed and blotchy, his ears rotated back and eyes rimmed with red, but he manages a shaky smile. "Ya help a'ready," he says, threading his hand into Davey's. "Just - bein' here. Bein' with me." He gives a soft, agitated noise and cards his free hand through his tousled hair. "And ain't nothin' anyone can do 'bout the old man. Court's gonna do what they gonna. On'y thing I can do is tell 'em it all 'gain and see if this judge listens more." 

"That's not fair," says Davey, and then immediately winces at how juvenile it sounds. Jack must be thinking the same thing because his lips twitch upward as he meets Davey's gaze. "I just - It's not bad enough they already put you through all this once, now they want to make you go over it all again? And for what? To decide whether he gets out now or in a couple years? Like that'll make some big difference?" 

The felisian's ears relax forward a little bit, his expression softening. "Ya know I love it when ya get all feisty on my behalf," he jokes. 

"Well someone should," Davey replies insistently. "It sounds like everyone else didn't do a very good job of it. And now this? I mean, couldn't they have at least come up with a better way to break the news than a copy-and-paste letter?" 

At this, Jack actually snorts a quick laugh. "'Cause it would'a been less bad if it was a stripper-gram or something?" he retorts sarcastically. Davey scoffs and rolls his eyes. "S'fine, babe. It's not like - I mean, I ain't happy 'bout it, but I'll be okay. Was just a shock. Got me spooked. And I just - didn't wanna be 'lone with all those thoughts in my head. So thanks." He leans in, kissing Davey warmly. 

"Whatever you need, I'm here," Davey vows. "All you gotta do is say." 

This time, Jack's smile is real, and he bumps his nose to Davey's cheek affectionately. "I know." He exhales, and his gaze flicks over Davey's shoulder toward the kitchen, checking the oven clock. "What time's ya next class? One, right?" 

"Class got canceled," Davey says with a faint smirk. Jack shoots him a disbelieving look. "What? It's just my Lit class, and I'm already four chapters ahead on the reading. I can skip one day. Besides, you're more important." 

"You don't gotta do that. I'm okay now," says Jack. 

"Good for you, but I'm not," Davey rebuts. "It's been a long morning. I need a nap before I can even _think_ about schoolwork." Jack chuckles in fond exasperation. "Wanna join me?" 

The felisian grins, flitting his ears playfully. "I ever say no to that?" 

"If you do, I'll know you've been body-snatched," Davey says, laughing. Standing, he tugs Jack up with him and, on impulse, also snatches up the quilt from where it was discarded on the sofa. Davey toes off his shoes and climbs onto the bed, and he's barely laying down when Jack curls himself into Davey's side. The felisian burrows his way under Davey's arm, face tucked to his ribs. 

Smiling, Davey drags the threadbare quilt over them both - it's not quite big enough, made for a child, but it at least covers Jack's curled body. It's a little warm in the apartment at this time of day for blankets, especially fully dressed, but he knows Jack likes the feeling of soft and familiar things when he's upset. He massages circles into the base of Jack's ear, and the felisian slowly unwinds against his side. 

"Jack?" Davey says after a few minutes of rolling the words around in his head, trying to find a good way to phrase it. Jack hums, tipping his head to glance up through his lashes. "I want - that is, if you're okay with it - I just mean, I'd like to be there with you. For the hearing, if you decide to go." 

That's enough to get Jack to lift his head completely, pushing up onto an elbow. "You don't gotta do that," says the felisian. "It ain't gonna be nothin' special. Dunno if youse ever been to court before, but it's real borin'."

"I don't care," Davey says. "I know it's gonna be hard, and I want to be there for you. You don't have to do this alone." When Jack makes to argue again, Davey cups his cheek in a palm and talks over him, "I mean it, Jack. We're together, we deal with things together. I don't want you to go into this alone. So unless you really, really don't want me there, I want to be there with you." 

Jack searches Davey's face thoughtfully, something deep and inscrutable in his amber eyes, and his indecision is given away by the way he folds and relaxes his ears over and over. Then he exhales, and the tension floods out of him as he leans into Davey's hand. "I mean, if ya don't mind," he says, his lips slanting up. "A'ways feel braver when I got my sidekick with me." 

Davey squawks indignantly, flicking the tip of Jack's ear in annoyance. "I might take the offer back after that," he says, but there's no heat in it. 

"Hey," says Jack, softer, and he scoots up to bracket his arms on either side of Davey's head. Gazing down at him, Jack's eyes are wide and soft. "You know I's kiddin'. For real, though, it'd be nice. Havin' you there. I mean, Ma's pro'lly gonna wanna go too when she hears, but you - yeah, I could use the backup." 

"Then I'll be there," Davey agrees. He tugs Jack down into another kiss, then cradles the felisian to his chest again. "I told you, whatever you need, I'm here."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack Kelly has been in a fair number of courtrooms in his life, but although every other trial was to decide his own fate, he's a hundred times more scared for this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caution: Healthy amounts of author handwaving and artistic liberties in regards to the American legal system. I have worked in law enforcement for years and I know that this is not exactly how parole hearings actually work. I've just chosen to bend the rules for the sake of drama. Forgive me?

Jack has been in a fair number of courtrooms in his life. He never attended his father's initial trial, but he was sent to a handful of juvenile court hearings while he was getting into trouble in the foster system. For the most part, they all tend to look the same; not quite so big and dramatic as the ones on TV but still as cold and imposing. 

Even though every other court hearing was one to decide Jack's fate, he's a hundred times more nervous about this one. 

The hand threaded through Jack's squeezes softly, and Jack glances sideways. Davey is trying to look calm, but he's got that stern frown he always gets whenever he's anxious. Still, Davey offers a small, reassuring smile, and Jack appreciates the gesture. 

It was a blow to find out that no one except the people directly involved in the case are allowed to be in the courtroom for the hearing. Jack won't admit it aloud, but he'd been counting on having Davey and Medda beside him in there. They still came with, ready with their support, but they'll have to wait outside in the hall during the hearing itself. Meaning Jack will have to face it all alone. Jack will have to face _him_ alone. 

Approaching footsteps draw Jack's attention, and he sees the city prosecutor walking over to them. Jack met him a few times in the lead-up to the hearing to discuss the process and his testimony. "Hey, Mr. Kloppmann," Jack greets, and his hoarse voice feels unnaturally loud in the echoing wood-paneled hall. 

Mr. Kloppmann is older, his hair silver-gray, but his eyes are shrewd and sharp as a hawk. "Mr. Kelly," he replies with a nod. "Mr. Jacobs. And-?" He trails off pointedly. 

"Medda Larkin," Ma supplies from Jack's other side, offering out a hand. "I'm Jack's foster mother." 

"Ah, pleasure to finally meet you," Kloppmann says, shaking her hand. "Jack's spoken very highly of you." Turning back to Jack, Kloppmann gives him one of those searching, critical looks. "You still want to go through with this?" he asks. "We have your video testimony; we can still use that if you don't want to take the stand." 

It's something Jack's been thinking about a lot since he first got the letter about his father's parole hearing. Kloppmann had him record an official statement in advance, just in case he changed his mind, but - "No, I'll do it," Jack says, shaking his head. "I think - I think I _need_ to do it." Davey grips his hand tighter, while Medda drops a palm onto his shoulder, rubbing soothingly. 

Kloppmann nods, his gaze understanding, and says nothing more on the subject. 

Minutes feel like they drag out into hours as they sit, waiting in the hall for the hearing to begin. Each second that passes makes Jack more agitated, and he'd get up and pace except then he'd have to leave the comforting touches of his mother and boyfriend. Ma is still brushing her hand along his shoulder, while Davey folds both his hands around Jack's. Even with his muscles twitching restlessly, Jack doesn't want to lose that contact any sooner than he has to. 

Jack is tense, his ears jumping alertly to each faint sound, so when he hears footsteps coming from inside the courtroom, he's already looking up at the door as the stoic bailiff opens it. The man doesn't address them apart from a terse nod, but it still makes the bottom drop out of Jack's stomach. It's time.

"I'll see you inside," Kloppmann says before he strides into the courtroom.

Folding his ears back, Jack squeezes his eyes shut and takes a long, slow breath to calm himself. When he stands, Medda and Davey both stand too, and Ma promptly wraps him in a hug. "You can do this, sugar," she whispers. She steps back, cupping Jack's face in her hands, and stands on her toes to press a kiss to his forehead. 

"We'll be right here if you need us," Davey says, and Jack turns to him. "Right here outside the door." Then Davey pulls him in for a quick, chaste kiss before enveloping Jack in a hug. "I'll be right here, Jacky." 

Jack fights back the tears stinging at his eyes when he lets go, and he gives them both a grateful look. "Love you."

"Love you too," both of them reply, smiling encouragingly. 

If he doesn't move now, Jack knows he's going to lose his nerve, so he offers one last half-hearted grin and forces himself to turn away, heading into the courtroom. There are only three other people in the section for witnesses and victims, none of them familiar to Jack. Kloppmann is seated at one table, already rifling through his papers. 

The attorney sitting at the defense table looks collected and at ease, the faint smile on his face almost a little smug as he looks around the room. Jack never met him, but he knows who he is because Kloppmann told him ahead of time. Mr. Snyder is his father's defense attorney, the same man that got Francis the plea deal that saved him from a murder charge. Jack bristles angrily, and when Snyder's gaze lands on him, Jack draws back his lips in a pointed snarl. 

Mr. Snyder's only response is a raised eyebrow that almost looks mocking. 

The courtroom door opens again, and an ominous pit forms in Jack's chest. He knows what's coming, can almost _feel_ it, and he's suddenly terrified. Logically, he knew this would be part of it, but that doesn't mean he's ready to actually face the man he hasn't seen in almost fifteen years except in his nightmares. 

The man who is walking up the path between the two rows of benches, flanked on either side by a prison guard, looks very little like the man Jack remembers. Francis Sullivan is well-groomed and clean-shaven, his dark hair now streaked with gray at the temples. His white shirt and black slacks are crisp, even with the contrast of the shackles on his wrists and ankles. There's something calm and weary about him, none of the constant pent-up rage that fills Jack's memories. 

The worst part, though, is that when Jack looks at this man's face, he sees his own. 

Francis Sullivan's gaze drifts idly around the room as he shuffles toward the front of the room. When the topaz eyes land on Jack, Frank's steps falter and his face shifts into one of shock, eyes wide. Jack can feel the man drinking in his features, no doubt recognizing him even though the last time Frank had seen him, Jack was in first grade. 

The weight of his gaze sends a shiver down Jack's spine. Although he drops his eyes, unable to meet his father's gaze, Jack folds his ears back and bares his teeth aggressively. Jack doesn't dare to look up again until he hears the guards removing Francis' shackles over by the defense table.

"All rise for the honorable Judge Whitlow," the bailiff announces over the room. There are soft shuffling noises as the small group stands. 

A door behind the desk opens, and a woman in black robes emerges, her strawberry-blond hair drawn back into a tight bun and years carved into her pointed face. Adjusting her gold wire-framed glasses, the woman looks out over them and then nods. "Be seated," she says as she sinks into her chair. The rest of the room follows suit. 

The judge shuffles a few papers on her desk and clears her throat. "We are meeting today to review the request of early release and parole for Francis John Sullivan Sr. The defendant has been found guilty of one charge of class A involuntary manslaughter and one charge of class A domestic violence in the presence of a child. Mr. Sullivan was sentenced to serve twenty years in Rikers prison, of which he has currently served fourteen." 

Heavy anticipation hangs over the room as the judge takes a moment to sort her papers on her desk again, and then she looks up toward the defense table. "Mr. Snyder, you may begin your questioning." 

Snyder stands, buttoning and smoothing down his suit jacket, and nods respectfully. "Thank you, your honor. The defense calls to the stand Mr. Francis Sullivan." 

Frank rises and crosses to the witness stand, his ears stiff in their neutral position and his tail forcibly still beside his leg. It makes Jack cringe, a blatant reminder of the way he was raised to have complete control over his felisian features, never allowed to let any of his emotions show through them. Jack is still struggling to get over that ingrained habit to this day, and he only feels that more keenly at seeing the source. 

After the bailiff swears Frank in on a crisp, black Bible, Mr. Snyder approaches the stand. "Mr. Sullivan, you have confessed to your crimes, is this correct?" Even the lawyer's voice makes Jack uncomfortable, slick as oil and twisted with false humility. 

"Yes'sir," Frank says. His voice still sounds the same way Jack remembers, the same low, coarse rumble of it with a strong New York accent, although at least not raised in anger at the moment. Still, the sound of it makes Jack recoil and curl his tail into his lap protectively.

"In your trial, you confessed to your charges and pled guilty," Snyder prompts. 

"Yes'sir," Frank agrees. "I never denied that I made a mistake. I hurt my family, and I deserved what I got." 

Snyder nods. "It was concluded in your trial that the death of Mrs. Anna Sullivan was an accident," he says, more to the courtroom in general than to Frank. Jack can't fathom who he's trying to convince; like Jack's juvenile hearings, parole cases aren't settled by juries. The only person whose opinion matters, in the end, is the judge. "Although my client admits to pushing her, the injury that took her life was an accident caused by her fall." Turning back to Francis, Snyder says, "Since your incarceration, have you been involved in any violent incidents?" 

The felisian licks his lips, frowning. "Got in a fight, once, when I first got in," Frank says levelly. "I was hurtin'. Lost my whole family 'cause one accident. And a fella came after me, callin' me a murderer. It hurt. I never wanted what happened to my Anna. So yeah, I hit him." 

"This incident has been recorded and documented by the prison warden," Snyder says, walking back to his table and picking up a manila folder. He passes this over to the judge. "It was decided by the prison staff that although Mr. Sullivan took the first swing, he was provoked by another inmate who cornered him in the cafeteria. They concluded that both parties were at fault and were punished accordingly." 

Addressing the general room again, Snyder continues, "During his tenure in Rikers, Mr. Sullivan has maintained a clean record of good behavior. Mr. Sullivan has attended regular therapy and anger management classes, and his doctor has signed off that his emotional stability is improved. 

"My client is also deeply involved in multiple programs within the prison. He serves with the prison's Protestant church, helping with the weekly services and volunteering as a class leader. Is this correct, Mr. Sullivan?" 

"I wanna share what I learned," Frank says firmly. "When I went in, another inmate shared his faith with me. I found God, and I found forgiveness in the church. I's just been tryna give that peace to someone else." 

Jack flits his ears in annoyance and disbelief; the father he remembers was always a God-fearing man, and the number of times Jack heard God's name thrown around in his rants is innumerable. As a child, Jack was told that he was being hurt because of God's will, that his felisianism is punishment, an outward reflection of the evil soul he was born with. 

Snyder nods. "I have submitted in evidence testimony from both the prison psychiatrist and his priest," the lawyer adds to the judge pointedly. "They have both spoken highly of Mr. Sullivan and his dedication to improving himself. No further questions." 

As Snyder crosses back to his table, Mr. Kloppmann stands up and clasps his hands behind his back. "Mr. Sullivan, returning to the topic of your initial trial," the prosecutor starts levelly, "you say that you never denied your crimes, and yet, in your first trial, you pled innocent. Is that correct?" 

Francis swallows hard. "I was scared," he says. "My wife was dead, and folks thought I done it. And if I went away, that left my son alone." Jack flinches, ears flattening furiously. As if Frank ever truly cared about Jack's wellbeing. "I was scared of losin' all the family I got left. And the lawyers were callin' it murder. I won't deny it's my fault Anna's dead, but I didn't kill her." 

"And aside from the charge of murder, there were other charges against you that were dismissed or lessened when you accepted a plea deal before the conclusion of the trial, yes?" Kloppmann continues. The felisian's expression tightens. Kloppmann picks up a paper from his table and slips on a pair of reading glasses to squint at the page. "January 2006, the people v. Francis Sullivan Sr., charged with one count of second-degree aggravated murder, one count of aggravated child abuse, two counts of criminal mischief for the destruction of property, and one count of domestic violence in the presence of a child." 

"Objection, your honor," Snyder interrupts, standing and slapping a palm onto the table. "This is a hearing about my client's current state, not a trial of crimes for which he's already been tried. He is protected from this line of questioning by the laws of double jeopardy."

"I am merely trying to establish the defendant's history of violent behavior," Kloppmann counters. "A key point of these hearings is to determine if the release of the prisoner will endanger others." 

The judge glances between the lawyers, lips pursed. "Overruled," Judge Whitlow declares, "but tread carefully, Mr. Kloppmann." 

Kloppmann nods to acknowledge the warning while Snyder drops back to his seat moodily. "In your trial, you accepted a plea deal that dismissed the child abuse and criminal mischief charges and greatly lowered the severity of the other charges," he says, addressing Frank again. 

"'Cause it was an _accident_," Francis says sharply, voice rising. 

"An accident would imply that this was a single occurrence," Kloppmann says. "However, a glimpse at police department call logs suggests otherwise. Although you were never charged previously, there was a lengthy list of dispatches to your home for domestic disputes."

"Your honor," Snyder cuts in furiously. "Objection. These are accusations and nothing more, and irrelevant to the matter at hand."

"Sustained," the judge says. She narrows her eyes at Kloppmann. "Let's stick to the facts."

Kloppmann's lips tighten, but he nods. "While these charges were never pressed, there are still other charges of violent acts on your criminal history, Mr. Sullivan," the lawyer continues. "In the five years prior to your wife's death, you were cited on five occasions for assault, twice for drunk and disorderly, once for damage to public property, and once for assault against an officer. Care to elaborate?"

"I had a drinkin' problem," says Frank. "Dunno if a fella like you ever been in a blue-collar bar, but sometimes when hard-workin' men get drunk, they get mad. So yeah, couple times, somethin' would happen after a few drinks and fellas would throw some punches." He grimaces, dragging a hand down his face. "I toldja, I ain't denyin' that I fucked up in the past. But with God's help, I got myself clean. Nine years sober. You can check with my AA sponsor on that." 

"Good for you," Kloppmann says. "That wasn't, however, my point. My point is that you have a lengthy history of violent and aggressive behavior even before your wife's death." Snyder looks like he's about to object again, but Kloppmann holds up a hand. "No more questions." 

"Thank you, Mr. Sullivan," the judge says. "You may return to your seat." Francis stands, shoulders a tight line, and he slinks back to the seat beside his lawyer. "Mr. Kloppmann, your witness."

Kloppmann glances back to meet Jack's gaze, a question in his eyes, and Jack licks his lips but nods. "The prosecution calls Mr. Jack Kelly to the stand," Kloppmann announces to the room. 

Jack takes a deep breath, trying to hide the fact that his hands are shaking as he rises to his feet. The rarely worn suit feels awkward on his body, and he desperately wishes he'd not worn the tie because he's having a hard enough time breathing to begin with. Jack walks to the front of the courtroom and steps into the witness stand, where the hip-height railings feel suspiciously and irrationally like a cage. There can't be more than ten people total in the room, but the stares are suffocating as the bailiff swears him in.

Mr. Kloppmann offers him a quick, reassuring look before clearing his throat. "Mr. Kelly, would you please explain your relation to the case?"

Tucking his ears back, Jack inhales and says, "Francis Sullivan's my biological father."

"And this would also make you the son of the victim, Anna Sullivan, correct?" Kloppmann adds.

"Yes'sir," Jack agrees, and then immediately winces when he realizes it sounded exactly like Frank. 

Kloppmann nods, folding his hands in the small of his back again. "You were present at the time of Anna Sullivan's death, correct?"

"I was, yeah," says Jack, pointedly changing his phrasing so he doesn't repeat Francis. He also makes a conscious effort to speak more clearly, trying to avoid the slang and dropped letters he usually uses. It's the way Davey talks most of the time, and Davey always sounds so smart and confident when he talks. Jack wants to sound that way right now too. "Was in the same room, watched it happen."

"I would like to review your testimony from that time, if you don't mind," Kloppmann says, raising an eyebrow, and Jack nods. The lawyer picks up a folder from his desk and opens it, eyes panning over the page even though Jack knows the man has it memorized forward and backward from the times they've gone over it. "In the initial case, you provided testimony to detectives that both you and Anna Sullivan were injured prior to the incident." 

Jack swallows hard. "Happened a lot," he says, trying to keep his voice level. "He'd get mad, and he'd smack us 'round. And that day - I got slammed into a wall, it split back of my head pretty deep, and he tried to choke my mom before he threw her at the table." 

"I present in evidence the final conclusion from the medical examiner," Kloppmann says, handing a few papers to the judge, "declaring that there was significant damage to the victim's throat at the time of death, indicative of strangulation. I also present the evaluation from the doctor that treated Mr. Kelly after the incident, who diagnosed Mr. Kelly with a severe concussion, a severe contusion to the left orbital socket, and a case of shock, just to name a few." The judge nods, accepting the papers and skimming over them shrewdly. 

Kloppmann turns his attention back to Jack. "In your testimony, you also confessed that this was not the first time that Mr. Sullivan was violent towards you, correct?" 

"Like I said, happened a lot," says Jack, nodding. 

"With what regularity would you say?" 

"Probably least once every two weeks or so, a bit more when he was stressed out about something," Jack admits, hands fisting in his lap. "Wasn't always as bad as that time, sometimes it was just a smack or shoving, but sometimes it was worse." 

"Worse in what way?" Kloppmann prompts. 

Jack forces himself to take a steadying breath. "When he'd been drinking, wasn't always fists he was hitting me with. He'd get me with his beer bottle, or whatever was nearby he could grab. Lamp or books or ashtray. And when he was real pissed-" Jack pauses, swallowing around the lump in his throat. "He hated us being felisian, sir, said it was God's way of showing folks we're damned. Got mad if I did something that wasn't normal human. When that happened, lotta times he'd pull my tail or twist it. Broke it a couple times." 

"Mr. Kelly's medical history," Kloppmann says, handing another file to the judge. "Between the years of 2002 and 2006, Mr. Kelly was treated seven times for tail-related injuries - in total, four breaks, six fractures, and three herniated discs. In those incidents, he was often also found to have multiple contusions and once, a cut to his face that required stitches." Jack touches his forehead self-consciously, barely able to feel the thin white scar that crosses the left side into his hairline. 

"Objection, your honor," Snyder says, bolting to his feet. "This is conjecture, there's no proof that any of those injuries were caused by my client." 

Jack glares at the man angrily. "You callin' me a liar?" he snarls. 

"Mr. Kelly," the judge interrupts, fixing him with a piercing look. Jack recoils, trying to calm himself. Right, he needs to sound confident and smart and collected. Lashing out doesn't help. Judge Whitlow turns her attention back to the lawyers. "Overruled. You may continue, Mr. Kloppmann."

"Can you describe for us your memories of the day Anna Sullivan died?" Kloppmann says steadily. "What was Francis Sullivan's behavior like that day?"

The felisian takes a deep breath. They prepared for this, Kloppmann told him ahead of time that these were the sort of questions he'd be asked, but it's harder with all of the eyes on him. It's especially hard to focus with the amber eyes watching him from the defense table. 

"He was having one of his real bad days," Jack explains. "It didn't start with the hitting. Never did when he was real pissed, he'd always get worked up yelling first. And he was screaming like crazy, calling Mom all kindsa names and saying she was ungrateful and a liar and a whore."

"And when did the aggression become physical?" Kloppmann presses. 

"He'd thrown a couple things, but was - I was scared for Mom, I'd never seen him that mad before. So I tried to step in. Was just tryna protect her. That's when he threw the first punch. Knocked my tooth out," Jack taps his left top canine, "and the next one got my eye, cracked the bone a bit. And then he grabbed me by the throat, and I couldn't breathe, and he picked me up off the ground and slammed me 'gainst the wall."

Kloppmann nods. "When did his attention turn to the victim?"

Jack licks his lips. "She hissed when he hurt me," he says, and he can't completely hide the shake in his voice as a tear escapes, his determination to speak clear faltering. "He hated everythin' felisian, always had, anythin' that was sorta cat-like made him mad. So when she did it, that's when he got her by the neck. I remember - her face was so red. My head was poundin', and it was hard to see, but I remember that. She was red, and she was kickin'." 

"And then Francis shoved her?"

"Objection!" Snyder says, billowing up like a thundercloud. "He's leading the witness."

"Sustained," Judge Whitlow says, shooting a pointed look at Kloppmann. 

The lawyer nods and starts over. "Sorry, I'll rephrase. Can you tell us what happened after Mr. Sullivan attempted to strangle the victim?" 

"He threw her," Jack says. "She was barely on her feet, barely standin' up, and he threw her away from him. And she fell and bashed her head on the coffee table. It was - the sound, it was _so loud_." His voice cracks, and he clears his throat.

Kloppmann nods thoughtfully. "In your honest opinion, Mr. Kelly, was Anna Sullivan's death an accident?" 

Closing his eyes against the well of tears, Jack takes a long, slow breath before he faces the lawyer again. "No," he says resolutely. "That look in his eyes - I think if she didn't smack her head, he would've just done it some other way. And I honestly think, if the cops ain't showed up when they did, might've been me next."

"Thank you, Mr. Kelly," Kloppmann says with a polite dip of his head. "No more questions."

Mr. Snyder rises from his chair, his cold gray eyes settling on Jack. "Now, Mr. Sullivan-"

"Kelly," Jack interrupts furiously, his hackles rising. Snyder raises an eyebrow. "My name is _Jack Kelly_."

"That so?" Snyder asks. "Because I've got a birth certificate here-"

"Objection, your honor," Kloppmann snaps. "The witness' name has been legally changed, I can provide documentation if necessary. This is an obvious attempt to provoke the witness."

"Sustained," Judge Whitlow says firmly. "You will address the witness by his legal name, Mr. Snyder."

The defense attorney gives her a simpering smile and nods. "Yes, of course," he agrees. "Mr. _Kelly_, then, you claim that you witnessed a murder, and yet when questioned by the police, you initially denied knowledge of anything. Care to elaborate?" 

"I was a seven-year-old kid that just watched his mom die," Jack says flatly. "I was scared that he was gonna kill me too if he found out I talked to the cops. Course I didn't say it." 

"So when you changed your mind and placed the blame on Mr. Sullivan, you weren't coerced by anyone to give that testimony by someone you spoke to, maybe one of the caseworkers?" Snyder asks. 

Jack sneers. "Think my busted face was pretty good evidence I was telling the truth, doncha think?" 

Snyder makes a noncommittal noise. "Except this wouldn't be the only time you lied to the authorities, would it?" he says. He picks up a manila folder off his table. "In fact, from what I can see here, it looks like you're a bit prone to getting into trouble, weren't you?"

"Objection!" Kloppmann says, slamming a fist down onto the table. "Your honor, the witness is not the one on trial here."

"If you want to use this boy as a character witness, I think it'd be beneficial to understand his character as well, don't you think?" Snyder shoots back. "To be sure he's the sort of witness that can be trusted?"

"Sustained," Judge Whitlow practically growls. "Mr. Synder, the witness has been sworn in, you do not need to further prove his honesty. And I might add," she glowers at him over the rim of her glasses, "that if you are referencing to any criminal records pertaining to a _juvenile_, we will be having an entirely different conversation after this is over."

Snyder actually looks chastised for a moment, but he nods and drops the folder back onto the table. "Of course, your honor, I wouldn't dream of it," he says silkily. "Returning to my point," his gaze turns back to Jack, "would you say that you remember the day of Anna Sullivan's death clearly?"

"Absolutely," Jack responds, eyes narrowing when he realizes what the lawyer is implying. "It's not the sorta thing you forget."

"Well, you were only a small child at the time. And of course, you have admitted that you were not thinking clearly that day," Snyder says. "You sustained a head injury that would've left you disoriented. Is it possible that your memories are not entirely reliable?"

Bristling, Jack says, "I was disoriented 'cause that guy bashed my head into a wall, but that didn't make me _blind_. I know what I saw."

"So you're saying there's no chance that you have inflated these stories in your head?" Snyder presses coolly. "That you were a child who let their imagination make things seem more dramatic than they were?" 

"Didn't need to make it dramatic, was already that way," Jack says fiercely, indignant tears sparking in his eyes. "I's spent every day my life terrified of that man. You got no idea what it's like, being scared all the time 'cause you never know what's gonna be the thing that makes him mad this time, what's gonna be the thing that makes him hit ya. You want proof I'm telling the truth about gettin' beat, go ahead and look at all my medical stuff."

Snyder hums. "Yes, about those," he says. "It's a bit strange that a child turns up with injuries like you claim and no doctor ever reported it as possible child abuse. They are legally required to, you know?" 

"'Cause I never saw the same doc twice," Jack counters. "Whenever I got hurt bad enough to need a doctor, we went to a different place every time. You say a li'l kid falls and sprains his tail on the playground, no one thinks twice. Only makes 'em suspicious when it happens more times." 

"And you never thought to tell a doctor what was happening?" Snyder asks. "Never thought to let any of those doctors you saw know?" 

The felisian scoffs. "Was too scared. He always went with me, was the one to take me to the doc, never let just Mom do it. I sure as shit wasn't going to say anything to the doctor while he was watching me." 

"Yet at no other time - not at school or church or even to a neighbor - did you ever feel inclined to ask for help?" 

"I _a'ways_ wanted to ask for help," Jack counters, frustrated. "Course I did. But I was scared too, 'cause what if they told him what I said? And as awful as living there was, I was even more scared of being took away. I didn't have other family. If they took my folks away, I was all alone, and that scared me even more than the beatin's. Least with those I knew what to 'spect, I'd got used'ta that." 

A choked sob sounds in the courtroom, and Jack's ears snap forward in shock because the sound didn't come from his mouth. When he looks at the defense table, Francis Sullivan is staring at him, looking so pitifully old and shattered, with tear tracks rolling down from his topaz eyes. The sight hits Jack like a punch in the chest, stealing the air from his lungs, and a sickening numbness spreads through him that's immediately followed by cold fury. 

"No more questions," Snyder drawls and heads back to his table. 

Jack stands on shaking legs, his heart pounding so hard he can barely hear anything else. "A brief recess, your honor?" Kloppmann requests primly. 

"Granted," Judge Whitlow agrees. "We will reconvene in fifteen minutes." 

Jack casts a grateful look Kloppmann's way, and then he all but flees the courtroom.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for forgiving my blatant misrepresentation of the judicial process. 
> 
> So here's a chapter where Jack has the best support system on earth and gets all the hugs he so desperately needs right now.

Davey can feel his heart break as he watches Jack huddle into Medda's shoulder, trembling even as he fights to muffle his sobs. The felisian startled them both when he bolted out of the courtroom ahead of everyone else, eyes red and fists clenched. In a matter of seconds, Jack claimed the seat beside Medda and burrowed into her embrace, letting his mother comfort him while he cries. Davey immediately relocated to Jack's other side, feeling completely and utterly useless as he rubs Jack's spine soothingly. 

Jack hasn't spoken a word since leaving the courtroom, although Davey's seen a few others come out, so he figures they're on some sort of break. It's been agonizing just sitting in the hall and waiting, knowing that Jack's in there suffering alone. Davey and Medda tried to talk for a while, distracting themselves, but at some point after the first half-hour, Medda just took Davey's hand, and they waited in suffocating silence. 

"Hearing to reconvene in one minute," the bailiff announces from the doorway. 

Jack flinches and lifts his head, face flushed. Kloppmann is walking over to them, and he frowns sympathetically. "You don't have to come back in if you don't want to," the lawyer says when he reaches them. "You've given your testimony. You can wait out here, or you can go home if you'd rather. I'll call you after to give you the verdict. 

"I'll stay," Jack croaks, his voice hoarse. Davey winces and rubs his hand over Jack's knee reassuringly. The felisian clears his throat before he adds, "I wanna hear it. I just - think I need a min." 

Kloppmann nods. "I understand," he says. "Take a break, collect yourself. There'll be another break while the judge reviews her notes at the end, I can fetch you then before she gives the verdict." 

"Thanks, Mr. K," Jack says gratefully, some of the tension sliding from his shoulders.

Davey watches the lawyer stride back toward the courtroom doors, but another figure heading that way catches Davey's attention. He hadn't seen the other men come out, preoccupied with Jack, but there's a pair of men walking together to the doors, and one of them is staring their way. As Davey's gaze pans down the other felisian, his stomach drops and he can't stop the breathless, "Oh my God," that slips out.

There is no doubt that the man is Jack's father. They have some differences - Jack's ears are more pointed and his lips fuller, and there is no white on the older man's tail or tops of his ears - but for the most part, Jack is almost the spitting image of Francis Sullivan. The same face shape, the same build (although Jack might have an inch or two on Francis,) the same large amber eyes, the same dappled calico fur. 

And this man with Jack's face is the one who terrorized his childhood; this man is the reason Jack's been having frequent nightmares for the last month, waking up sweating and shaking, sometimes forgoing sleep entirely just to avoid it. 

Francis looks utterly wretched as he watches them, his eyes red-rimmed and cheeks blotchy. The man's lips move; Davey can't hear what he says, but whatever it is makes Jack look up and bristle. The fur on his ears and tail rises, his shoulders drawing up. Then, to the surprise of everyone in the hall, Jack hisses forcefully, the sound so loud it echoes in the marble hallway. Frank winces, dropping his gaze, and he shuffles into the courtroom beside his lawyer. 

(Davey knows that the sound was made intentionally to mock Francis, the same sound Jack's mother made that set the man off all those years ago, and Davey's amazed by Jack's strength in doing it, no matter how scared and uncomfortable it must've made him.) 

Quivering, Jack exhales and drops his head back against the wall with a dull _thunk_, eyes squeezed shut. Medda combs her fingers through Jack's hair below his ear. "You gonna be okay, sugar?" 

The felisian leans into her touch while his hand finds Davey's on his knee and threads their fingers together. "He _cried_," Jack chokes out. "That bastard cried like he ach'lly gave a shit 'bout what he done to me."

"It's okay, Jacky, it's over," Davey says, sandwiching Jack's hand between both of his. "You did it, it's over now." 

"Can we-" Jack looks around, eyes almost frantic, and his free hand goes up to tug at the knot of his tie. "Can we go outside? I need air, and I can still hear-" He breaks off, but Davey can guess what he was going to say; one of Jack's ears is pivoted toward the courtroom doors.

"C'mon, baby, there's a nice li'l place just outside those doors there," Medda says, standing. Davey keeps his hand woven with Jack's as they rise, and the moment they're moving, Medda loops her arm through Jack's as well. They walk like a security detail, keeping Jack safely between them, to the doors at the far end of the hall. 

Outside, there's a small sitting area off to the side of the front walkway, nothing more than a couple of old stone benches beneath a tree. It's louder out here, the sounds of the city no longer buffered by the building. Davey casts an uncertain look over at Jack - his hearing is sensitive enough as it is, let alone when he's so stressed it must be hard to focus on filtering. The felisian's ears are partially folded back, but there are none of the creases that form in his brow or the corners of his eyes when he's fighting off a sensory migraine. 

"M'okay, Dave," Jack says abruptly, his expression softening when he glances sideways to meet Davey's eyes. "Sound ain't buggin' me. S'kinda nice righ'now. That place's too quiet." He lifts their joined hands to kiss Davey's knuckles. "But thanks for worryin'." 

"Am I that transparent?" Davey teases, and he's relieved by the brief flicker of a smile that crosses Jack's lips. 

"You get that funny li'l wrinkle above your nose when youse worryin'," the felisian responds. "S'cute." 

The three of them claim one of the stone benches, Jack practically squashed between Medda and Davey. (And it doesn't escape Davey's notice that Jack tucks his tail into the space between his thigh and Davey's, even though it'd be more comfortable for him to leave it draped off the back of the bench.) Medda settles one hand between Jack's shoulder blades, while Davey wraps his arm around the small of the felisian's back. Jack doesn't say a word about their obvious attempts to give him as much comforting physical contact as possible, but he does exhale and let his spine loosen a little. 

"That sucked," Jack admits with a dry chuckle. "Don't never let me do that again." He pulls the knot of his tie lower and unbuttons his collar. "And 'specially not with that fuckin' lawyer." 

Davey hears Medda click her tongue at the curse, but she lets it slide. "That bad?" Davey asks uncertainly. 

"That man's the reason lawyer's get a bad rap," Jack says fervently. "Every nasty thing a lawyer could do, I betcha he done it. He was tryna piss me off, could tell. He wanted to make me mad so I said somethin' stupid. He-" Jack's voice breaks, and he clears his throat. "He called me _Mr. Sullivan_." 

"He _what_?" Medda says sharply, puffing up. Davey's heard Jack and Spot joke about her mama-bear mode before, but actually seeing it is another thing entirely. It's like watching a thunderstorm roll in but in fast-motion. Her eyes flash, and her lips thin into a hard line, and Davey can absolutely see why people would be afraid of her like that.

"Kloppmann stopped him, but - ya could tell that Snyder thought he was funny," the felisian snarls. "Actin' all innocent like he didn't know, even though Mr. K'd been calling me my name the whole time 'fore him. And he was tryna make me sound like a liar. Like I was just some kid makin' up stories. And I'm pretty sure he seen my juvie records too." 

Medda's expression, impossibly, sharpens further. "Those are supposed to be sealed," she seethes. "_No one_ should be able to see those." 

Jack nods. "Judge put a stop to it 'fore he could say anythin' real bad, but I know that's what he was talkin' 'bout." He scoffs and cards a hand into his hair. "Can see how he got the ol' man off charges last time, fo'sure." 

"Mr. Kloppmann's gonna fix it," Davey says, brushing his hand across the small of the felisian's back. "He'll make sure that man stays where he belongs." 

Biting his lip, Jack nods again. "Wish there'd been a lawyer like him first time 'round," he says wearily. "Kloppmann never would'a give him that plea deal." 

It's a cruel injustice that Davey can't get over every time he thinks about it. There never should've been a plea deal for the case. The prosecutors easily had more than enough evidence for a conviction, it should have been a shoo-in. So what compelled them to offer a plea deal, lowering and dropping charges in exchange for a confession? Davey checked with Sarah to be sure, and if they'd kept just one of those charges as a felony, Francis would never have even _qualified_ for parole at any point during his sentence. 

Davey tries not to be an overly-suspicious person, but journalistic instinct keeps telling him that there's something more to the story that's missing. 

Shuddering, Jack takes a deep breath and dries his cheeks on his sleeve. "Ma, how's Crutch doin' with bein' a senior?" he asks. 

Davey can tell the question is Jack's way of finding a distraction, and Medda clearly does too because she launches in with enthusiasm. "Think he's starting to get nervous about graduating," Medda says with a laugh. "And Lord knows I am too. Soon it's just gonna be me and Lupe at home, the place is going to be so quiet. Well, not that Lupe is quiet, of course, thundering around the place the way she does. But Charlie's doing great in school, and that girlfriend of his is such a doll. You know, last week they-" 

Medda prattles on about anything and everything she can think of, from updates about Jack's foster siblings to the new production at the theatre she manages to the neighbor's three-legged cat that keeps climbing her tree and getting stuck. In the pauses between, Davey chips in to tell Medda stories about their classes and their friends and the day the kitchen sink in their apartment was dripping and Jack made a mess trying to fix it himself. 

The longer they talk, the more Jack unwinds, muscles uncoiling and spine slumping. That tic Jack always gets in his jaw from clenching his teeth too hard eases away, and his weight pitches sideways a little until he's leaning into Davey's shoulder. He even manages, after a while, to offer a laugh to their anecdotes that doesn't sound forced and strangled. 

During a small lull between stories, Jack takes their hands and squeezes them warmly. "Thanks," he murmurs, casting them both a watery look. "Love ya, both'a ya." 

"We love you too, baby," Medda says, drawing him down to kiss his temple. "And I know this is so hard, and I'm so, _so_ proud of you. It's a very brave thing." 

Jack's lips quiver, but it seems like he's run out of tears for the moment. "I didn't think it'd be so hard, seein' him," he confesses quietly. "Been so long, and I ain't a li'l kid no more, thought I'd be okay. But he's in there sayin' it's all accidents, and he found God to help him get better, and I'm just rememberin' all the times 'fore that that sure weren't no accidents." 

Davey can't stop the harsh scoff, and he winces when the other two glance at him questioningly. "Sorry, I just hate it when people try to use God as a scapegoat," he explains, embarrassed. "Like just going to church and praying makes all their sins okay now. God offers forgiveness, but that doesn't make it alright." 

"'Specially when 'fore that, the fella was usin' God as an excuse to hit ya," Jack tacks on with a wet laugh. Davey cringes, his jaw locking up indignantly at the admission. 

"I know you don't believe in God," Medda starts, rubbing Jack's hand between hers, "but I do, and I know that man won't get forgiveness. His crimes are bad, and lying about them makes it worse." 

A tiny smile quirks the corner of Jack's lips. "Good to know if it turns out I'm wrong 'bout God, least that man won't get heaven," he says dryly. He sighs, squaring his shoulders. "Should get back inside. Don't wanna miss Mr. K when he comes back." 

They stand without a word, neither Davey or Medda releasing Jack's hands as they walk back into the courthouse. The doors to the courtroom are still closed, and they deliberately choose a seating place further down the hall where Jack won't be able to hear what's going on inside. None of them speak, just quietly supporting Jack with their touch and their presence, and the felisian eventually drops his cheek onto Davey's shoulder wearily. 

Davey twitches as the guard hairs on Jack's ear tickle his throat. When he glances down, Jack's giving him a shadow of a mischievous grin that says he flicked his ear like that on purpose. Snorting, Davey shakes his head, privately relieved to see this glimpse of his Jack peeking out from under all the sadness. "You're lucky I love you, idiot," he mutters playfully. 

And Jack's smile softens. "I know," he responds with such sincerity it makes Davey's heart skip. 

The courtroom doors open about ten minutes later, and Kloppmann makes a beeline for them as soon as he spots them. The lawyer gives a small, tight nod of acknowledgment. "It went well," he reports encouragingly, taking off his reading glasses and tucking them away in an inner pocket of his suit jacket. "We interviewed the prison psychiatrist and the priest and his block supervisor. Priest wasn't much help, just went on about his services and forgiveness, but the others were good. Block supervisor admitted there's been a good number of incidents that didn't get physical but were close. And the shrink said he'd definitely made progress, but Mr. Sullivan's still got some real issues with his temper." 

"So you think they're really gonna say no to him?" Jack asks hopefully. 

"It's looking good," Kloppmann agrees. "Mr. Snyder tried his damndest to discredit the testimonies where they didn't suit him, but I know Whitlow, and she's not one to get fooled by bullshit." Kloppmann clears his throat, and he glances up and down the hall to make sure they're alone. "Also, you should know, I'm planning to launch an official inquiry with the bar association about Mr. Snyder," he adds, quieter. "If he really did get ahold of your juvenile records somehow, that's cause for disbarment." 

"Good," Medda says with a stiff nod. "That's a dirty, cruel thing to do."

The lawyer grunts. "Not to mention _very_ illegal. There's a lengthy process to unseal juvenile records, and it can only be done under certain circumstances. And nothing about this situation comes remotely close to qualifying for that. I want to find out how he got access to those records and make sure it doesn't ever happen again." 

"Thanks," Jack says, and he exhales slowly. "I ain't denied I did some dumb shit as a kid, but I-" 

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Jack," says Kloppmann, his tone gentling. "Trauma will affect anyone, and it can be especially damaging to a young child, but you've clearly come a long way since then. I know I haven't known you long, but it's enough to know that you're a good person."

The felisian looks at his mother adoringly. "Well, I got lucky and found someone to straighten me out," he says. Medda's eyes are damp now, and she pulls a crumpled tissue from her pocket to dab at them. 

"I'm glad," Kloppmann says, and it comes out deeply genuine. He takes a long breath and glances at the doors. "Not sure how long it'll be while Whitlow reviews her notes and the evidence, but it's almost over, kid." Jack's chin trembles, but he offers the lawyer an appreciative smile that Kloppmann returns kindly before he moves a few chairs down to take a seat, pointedly giving them their space. 

Time feels like it passes by in a slow slog, the three of them only talking in small fits and bursts, before the bailiff steps into the doorway and announces that the hearing is going to resume. There's no missing the way Jack tenses, ears folding back anxiously even while he straightens his spine. "It'll be okay, Jacky," Davey says, reaching up to brush Jack's cheek tenderly, feeling the dried tear tracks on his skin. 

"It'll be okay," Jack echoes like he's trying to convince himself, nodding determinedly. He kisses Medda's cheek, then kisses Davey as well, before he stands and awkwardly smooths the wrinkles from his suit. Jack falls into step with Kloppmann, walking back into the courtroom with his chin lifted. 

"He's such a brave boy," Medda whispers affectionately. 

"He really is," Davey agrees. He knows how terrified Jack is by this entire thing, and the fact that Jack can still go into that room and face it - well, if that's not courage, Davey doesn't know what is. 

Medda surprises him by reaching over and patting Davey's arm warmly. "And in case I haven't said it before, I'm so glad he has you," she says. "You're good for him." 

Davey's heart turns over in his chest, and a blush crawls up his neck and into his ears as he ducks his head self-consciously. "Thank you," he says. It feels all the more significant that he's earned Medda's approval, knowing how much she means to Jack. "I'm glad I have him, too." 

With a fond smile, Medda settles back in her seat, and they lapse into quiet again. Davey twists his hands together distractedly; prodding the writing callus on his finger and picking at a hangnail and scrubbing his thumb over a smear of ink on the heel of his hand. This part can't take all that long, right? It's just the judge saying yes or no. That can't _possibly_ take as long as everything else did. 

It takes Davey a few minutes to realize that his breathing has sped up, his heart pounding painfully against his ribs, and he winces. Shit, the last thing he needs to do right now is give himself an anxiety attack. He's supposed to be here to support Jack; he can't really do that if he's freaking out in the corner. Squeezing his eyes shut, Davey concentrates on timing his breaths into a normal rhythm, counting the seconds of each inhale methodically. 

The sound of the door clattering open makes Davey jump, and he immediately turns his attention that way. Two unfamiliar people walk out passed the bailiff, with Jack and Kloppmann not far behind. The felisian's eyes are watering again, but he smiles, and a wave of relief washes over Davey. "Oh thank God," he exhales, pushing to his feet. He's barely upright when Jack pulls him into a hug, nuzzling into the juncture of his shoulder. 

"The judge denied the parole request," Kloppmann says from behind him. 

Davey reluctantly releases Jack so he can hug his mother as well, and Davey takes the chance to dry his eyes on his cuff. As he does, he sees the other lawyer slink out of the room, his expression stormy. Then, behind him, Francis Sullivan is escorted out by a pair of prison guards, his wrists and ankles shackled. The felisian gazes over at them, defeated and shrunken in on himself as he shuffles out into the hall. Eyes narrowed, Davey shifts to insert himself between Frank and Jack's exposed back. 

Francis' eyes widen slightly, surprised by the move, and Davey can feel his gaze sweeping over Davey curiously. His attention jumps over Davey's shoulder, taking in Jack and Medda, and his ears flatten back for a moment before they flick back up to a forcibly neutral position. The sight of it just makes Davey angrier, recognizing the same habit in Jack and knowing that this man's the cause. 

"Thanks, Ma," Jack murmurs, and when Davey glances back, Medda is wiping the tears off Jack's cheek with her thumbs. "Love you too." 

The sound of Francis' chains clinking as he walks draws the gaze of all of them, the guards shepherding him down the hall toward the front doors and, inconveniently, passed their little gathering. Jack bristles dangerously the closer Frank gets, keeping himself close to Medda's side as his shoulders rise, an instinctive attempt to make himself seem bigger and more threatening. Davey stays a half-step in front of Jack, partially shielding him from the older felisian's stare. 

"Junior, I just-" 

"Don't you dare," Medda spits venomously, drawing Jack closer as she glares daggers at Frank. "Don't you _dare_ speak to my son! You lost those rights a long time ago, Mr. Sullivan." 

Frank flinches, hunching in on himself, but he plants his heels when the guard tries to push him forward a step. "I'm sorry," he says, and Davey's head reels because even his _voice_ sounds like Jack's, almost. "You should know that. I'm sorry for everythin', Junior." 

Jack steps forward aggressively, his lips drawn back to bare his teeth and his full tail lashing. "Go to hell," he snarls, and the sound comes out wrapped in a rumbling growl. "Go to hell and take your fuckin' _sorry_ with ya." He lifts his chin, eyes dark when he adds, "And my name is Jack." 

The older felisian physically recoils, tears sparkling in his eyes, and this time when the guard nudges him, he starts walking without protest. None of them take their eyes off Frank and his chaperones until they reach the doors. The moment the door shuts behind them, Jack deflates with a sad whine and retreats back into Medda's arms, shaking. 

"I want a protective order," Medda directs at Kloppmann as she cradles Jack to her chest, petting his hair. "That man knows his name now, I don't want him able to contact my boy in _any_ way." 

"Absolutely," Kloppmann agrees, knuckles white on the handle of his briefcase. "There's already one in place - there always is in domestic cases - but I'll review it, make sure that everything's up to date. Correct addresses and such. Don't worry, ma'am, I'll make sure he's protected." 

Medda nods and turns her attention to murmuring reassurances into Jack's scalp. Davey takes a deep breath and holds out a hand to Kloppmann. "Thank you so much, for everything," he says to the lawyer. 

"I only wish I could do more," Kloppmann says, shaking his hand. "It's always a shame when you find these cases where it was obviously mishandled, but there's not much else I can do now, apart from file for a mistrial."

"No," Jack says hastily, pulling out of Medda's arms to look at the lawyer. "That's the thing where we'd gotta do the trial again, right? Don't. I can't-" He shakes his head, frowning, and clears his throat. "Just - let it go. S'fine." 

Kloppmann nods. "Of course," he says. "I didn't think it would make things better either, forcing you to relive that again. For now, Mr. Sullivan stays behind bars, and you've got a good family to support you." He shakes hands with Jack and Medda and then straightens up. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got an inquiry to file with the bar." The lawyer offers a small flash of a smile before he turns and walks away. 

"You okay, sugar?" Medda asks, rubbing Jack's shoulder gently. 

The felisian draws in a deep breath and nods. "M'tired," he admits. "Just - I wanna go home." 

Medda pats his cheek. "Of course, let's get you boys home."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the rollercoaster of angst and pain, here's a long chapter that's pretty much purely Davey taking care of his fluffy bean.

Medda stays with them for dinner - "It's fine, sugar, Charlie and Jo picked Lupe up from school, they'll survive a few more hours." Her presence lightens the atmosphere in their tiny apartment so much. She gushes over Jack's paintings - especially the one he gave Davey for his birthday, which is hanging in pride of place above their secondhand sofa. She tuts at the day-old dishes in their sink, shaking her head in fond exasperation. She helps Davey to make dinner, throwing together a casserole from the assorted food in their cupboards and chiding them that they really need to buy more vegetables. 

By the time Medda leaves that evening, Jack is visibly calmer. He's still skittish, still keeping his tail wrapped close around his leg when he moves, but his shoulders aren't lifted toward his ears, which are no longer pressed flat to his skull. That's progress.

Jack doesn't leave Davey's side, though. He finds excuses to be close, helping Davey clean up the dinner dishes and pile laundry into the basket so he can make a trip to the laundromat tomorrow. It makes Davey feel a bit guilty when he breaks off to take a shower, but he's been sweating nervously all day and really needs it. 

Davey emerges from the bathroom to find the apartment dark, but there's enough light coming around the edges of the blinds that he can still see Jack huddled on the bed. The felisian is tucked into a ball, chin propped on the knees drawn up to his chest. His favorite old quilt is draped around his shoulders like a cape. Jack's eyes are closed and he's twitching slightly, and Davey's heart spasms. 

Davey's almost to the bed when he kicks something he didn't see, and then he jumps at the feel of wet carpet beneath his toes. He glances down in time to watch a glass roll across the carpet and disappear beneath the bed. Stomach churning, his eyes dart back up to the mattress, and Jack curls into a smaller ball, one ear following the progress of the glass and the other still aimed at Davey. 

"Jacky?" Davey ventures, crossing over to sit on the edge of the mattress. 

"Sorry, I'll clean it, promise. Just - thought it'd help," Jack murmurs without opening his eyes. "Drink helps when ya have a shit day, right?" He scoffs, the noise damp and self-deprecating. "Then I 'membered, that's what he always done too, and I couldn't-" The felisian breaks off with a soft, strangled noise, and Davey understands. 

Grimacing, Dave scoots further onto the bed, keeping his movements loud and obvious enough that Jack hears it and has the chance to pull away if he wants. The felisian doesn't move. Davey wipes at the moisture on Jack's cheek, and then he slides his hand up to comb through dark hair. "You gonna be okay, Jacky?" 

The felisian finally cracks his eyes open, and he looks so tragically young and vulnerable as he gazes up at Davey through damp eyelashes. "Tired," he sighs out, shrugging half-heartedly. "Just wanna-" He trails off, but he tips his head into Davey's palm more, and the unspoken request is clear. 

"I'm feeling some serious cuddles. I'm gonna cuddle the shit outta you, okay?" Davey says with a smile. Jack mirrors it and nods. When Jack lays down, Davey wraps himself along the felisian's spine. Jack doesn't uncurl from his tense ball, but he hugs Davey's arm to his chest, and his tail tucks beneath Davey's top leg securely.

"I'm really proud of you, Jack," Davey whispers against the back of his neck. "Going in there today, that was so brave." 

Jack shudders and presses back to Davey's chest. "Didn't feel brave," he admits. "Felt like a scaredy-cat." 

Well, if the cat jokes are back, at least Davey knows Jack is feeling a little more himself. "That's what made it brave," Davey says insistently. "Brave is when you're scared but you do it anyway. And going in there to face him was very brave." 

"Don't think I could ever do it again," says Jack, ducking his face into Davey's arm that he's currently using as a pillow. The latent New York accent and slang that he tries so hard to mask in public surge in thick with his exhaustion and anxiety. "Fuck, I dunno if I'mma be able to look m'self in the mirror again. Didn't realize, but now I's grown up, look just like him. Looked a bit like him when I was li'l, but now I..."

Davey scoffs. "Please, he's nowhere near as attractive as you. He's so old and grumpy-looking," he says playfully, trying to lighten the mood. Truthfully, Davey hadn't been prepared for it either; it was unsettling seeing something so familiar and yet so _off_. It felt like some shitty episode of The Twilight Zone, where Davey stumbled into one of those dark alternate realities and ran into Jack's evil doppelganger. Admittedly, Jack's much older doppelganger, but still. 

Shaking his head, Davey pulls his brain back on track. "You're taller, and your eyes have more gold. And he doesn't have your ears," Davey bumps his nose against an ear softly, and it flutters in response, "or the cute fluff on your tail. And his jaw's way too wide for his face, made his head look like a triangle." Jack snorts, but his tail fidgets in satisfaction from its spot beneath Davey's thigh. "You're beautiful, Jack," Davey says more sincerely, "inside and out. And nothing can change that." 

Jack's next inhale sounds ragged, and he tugs Davey's arm tighter around his ribs. "When he looked at me, I felt like a li'l kid again," the felisian confesses shakily. "Felt like I should go hide and stay outta his way case I made him mad. I never wanna feel like that again." 

"You won't have to," Davey vows. "You're not going to see him again. He's going to stay where he's at." 

"For six more years," Jack points out glumly, "then his sentence is up." 

"And he's still not allowed to be anywhere close to you," Davey says. "You heard Kloppmann. There's a no-contact order. He comes _anywhere_ near you, we're sending his ass right back to jail, and he'll rot there if I have my way." 

The felisian chuckles wetly. "Ya know, youse a bit scary when youse pissed off." 

"Yeah, you've commented about my resting bitch-face before," says Davey, amused. "If I remember right, it's how we met." Jack huffs a tiny giggle. Davey brushes his thumb on Jack's where their hands are tangled together over his heart. "I fight for the people I love," he says more seriously, kissing Jack's neck. "And Miss Medda and your whole family will too. He doesn't get to hurt you ever again, Jacky." 

Davey feels Jack's little smile against his bicep, the faintest impression of a sharp canine tooth. "Got me an army of scary mama-bears and feisty kittens, huh?" he teases. He nuzzles Davey's arm. "Thanks for bein' there today, Dave. I - I dunno if I could'a done it without you and Ma." 

"I'll always be there when you need me," Davey promises. 

The felisian shifts, rolling over, and Davey immediately knows what he's looking for; Davey turns onto his back so Jack can move into his favorite spot. Jack grins in the gathering darkness as he burrows into Davey's side, settling his cheek on Davey's shoulder. The autumn weather is starting to set in over the city, and their apartment is finally cool enough now that it doesn't feel sweltering to sleep together beneath the blankets. Davey fusses with the ratty old quilt, making sure it's pulled up around Jack's shoulders. 

"Ya don't gotta tuck me in like a baby," says Jack, laughing, but he clearly doesn't mind it since he just snuggles contentedly in place. The felisian sweeps his tail up over Davey's legs and exhales slowly, tension bleeding out of his muscles with his breath. "Ya know, Ma made me this," says Jack, tugging at the corner of the blanket. "Back when she very first brought me home." 

"Really?" Davey asks, surprised. He's always guessed that the blanket was some childhood treasure Jack's attached to - and Davey has no room to judge anyone considering the plush frog that's perched on the shelf in the back of their closet - but he's never bothered to ask where it came from. A part of him has always been a little afraid to find out. "Didn't know Medda can sew," he says lightly. 

Jack chuckles. "Where ya think some the theatre costumes come from?" he says. "I was on'y eleven when she got me. I was tryna be all tough and cool, 'cause I figured it was just gonna be anotha place I got booted outta when I was too much trouba. But I still got nightmares, sometimes. She heard me cryin', but I was bein' a badass, so I got all mean when she tried to hold me. So she made me this 'stead and says that way when I get sad, I can snuggle in this 'til I feel better." 

Davey smiles, his heart once again warming for Jack's incredible mother. "That's really sweet," he says. Davey brushes his hand along the edge of the quilt, feeling the contrast between the top layer of patchwork denim squares and the underside of soft red fabric, patterned like a bandana. The theme is clear, and it makes Davey grin. "Did she know you like cowboys, or was it a lucky guess?"

"She knew," the felisian says, smirking. "I told her lotsa times I was gonna run away and be a cowboy. Pretty much told everyone that'd listen back then. Thought it made me sound tough." He snorts and nuzzles Davey's shoulder. "And Medda, she just says that sounds like an excitin' job. Then she buys every single John Wayne movie on the planet, and says she's never seen 'em so can I watch 'em with her and explain it all?" 

"She's a little amazing," Davey says fondly. 

Jack huffs a laugh. "Don't I know it," he agrees. "She's a goddamn miracle worker, fo'sure. Sometimes I still dunno how she managed to fix me." 

"Because you're a good person," says Davey, tracing warm patterns between Jack's shoulders. "You just needed someone to remind you." 

The felisian tips his head to glance up through his lashes. "You're somethin' else, ya know that?" Jack says, and he sounds a little awed. Davey raises an eyebrow questioningly. "I dunno, just the way you see things sometimes. I dunno how ya do it."

Davey shrugs. "I don't know, I just - I've been in bad places, and I've done things that maybe made me a bad person, but I know that's not all I am. So I figure it's probably the same for everyone else too." 

"Could never think youse a bad person, Dave," the felisian says firmly. 

"Yeah, well, you didn't know me in my rebellious high school phase," Davey says with a wry laugh. "I let a cute boy talk me into a lotta things I regret now." 

Jack tenses, his arm wrapping tighter around Davey's waist, and it's clear he can guess who Davey's referencing: his abusive ex from high school, the one who manipulated a confused young boy and then shattered him to pieces. Talking about Morris has gotten easier for Davey since sharing the story with Jack months ago, and he finds the pain of the memories is just a little less sharp now. Still not pleasant, but he can look at them without retreating in a panic. 

Davey shakes his head. "Anyway, point is, I sorta just try to remember that things aren't always the way they look at first, and if I don't judge right away and just look a little harder, there's probably a deeper story there," he finishes. 

Humming in understanding, Jack seems to consider that for a moment, his tail tapping a distracted rhythm on Davey's knee. Then the felisian grins. "Investigative Journalist Davey strikes again, huh?" he jokes. "A'ways lookin' for the story." 

"It's a curse," Davey says dryly before he descends into laughter. "Forever compelled to obsess over things until I can dismantle them down to the core. I don't know how you put up with me, it drives most people crazy." 

"I mean, youse pretty," Jack replies. Davey huffs and flicks his ear, and the felisian giggles. "I like it, really," he goes on. "That way you wanna get all the facts. And I dunno, I kinda like you do it to me too. It helps. I'm not good at talkin' 'bout that stuff on my own but makes it easier to tell ya stuff 'cause I know you ain't gonna decide things 'til you hear it all. Still scared for the day you hear somethin' that's gonna make you run away."

Davey shifts his hand up to cradle the side of Jack's neck. "I love you, Jack. There's nothing you could tell me that'd make that change." 

"What if I killed someone?" Jack asks, cocking an eyebrow at him, and there's a hint of a smile dancing on his face. 

Relieved to see Jack relaxing, Davey's willing to play along. "I mean, what'd you kill them for? Was it self-defense or revenge or something stupid?"

The felisian's nose scrunches as he considers it. "He stole the last cookie." 

"Oh, well in that case, totally justified," Davey says, shrugging. "Stealing the last cookie is a dick move." Jack laughs brightly, sprawling across Davey's side contentedly. "But I mean it, Jack," Davey adds softer. "You know I love you, right?"

"I know," Jack agrees, smiling into Davey's ribs, and there's the briefest vibration of a silent purr. The fact Jack allows himself to do that after the day he's had comforts Davey more than he's willing to admit. "And I love ya too, babe. More 'an anythin'." 

"More than the last cookie?" Davey teases. 

Jack chuckles and pushes up onto his elbow so he can lean over Davey. "I'd letcha steal the whole _plate_'a cookies," he vows, and ducks in to kiss Davey tenderly. Then he grins and adds, "I might make a sad face at you though, just so's you know. Make that 'pity me' face 'til you feel guilty and gimme one." 

"Oh no, not the sad kitty eyes," Davey says with a dramatic swoon. He doesn't miss the way Jack's smile tips higher at the corner, ears flitting playfully at the fact Davey uses 'kitty' instead of 'puppy.' Davey's getting better at indulging Jack's weird sense of humor regarding his felisianism, at least in the times when it's really just a joke and not fueled by his insecurities. "I'll never survive it." 

"It's my best weapon," the felisian says in satisfaction. Sneaking one more kiss, he slumps to drape over Davey again. 

They lapse into a comfortable quiet, just enjoying the closeness in the shadows of their apartment. Jack's breathing slows as Davey massages below his ears, kneading at the tense muscles and pressure point there that always calm the felisian. Finally, when Davey thinks Jack's probably starting to fall asleep, Jack clears his throat quietly. "I lied 'bout the ol' man," he confesses into the shadows. 

Davey just waits, knowing there's more coming. There's something about laying together in the dark that makes Jack open up more, some kind of security he finds in the feeling of them alone, the outside world lost to darkness, that eases his barriers down. This is far from their first midnight conversation to lead to sharing secrets. 

"When I toldja I don't got any good memories 'bout him," the felisian elaborates after a moment, "that ain't true. I just wish I didn't." 

Davey nods, twining his free hand with Jack's on his chest. He can understand that. As much as his relationship with Morris damaged him, he can't deny that there were moments that were good too. Those moments where things were so nice that he could let himself forget about all of the bad; and conversely, could cling to those memories when things were terrible to remind himself it was just a moment and things would get better again. 

"He wasn't as bad when I was real li'l," says Jack. "I 'member playin' with him when I was li'l. He taught me to throw a ball, and he tried teachin' me to build stuff. That's what he did, ya know, for work. Woodworkin'. Did it in a factory, making furniture and stuff. We made a bookshelf together once, present for my mom. He got mad when I flinched 'cause the hammer sound was loud, but I toughed it, and when we finished, said he was proud'a me. Said doin' stuff like that makes ya into a real man." 

Jack gives a derisive noise and huddles against Davey. "And was him got me into cowboys," he admits. Davey blinks in surprise at that; it's a shock to find out that piece of Jack's personality that still hangs on to this day came from that dark part of his past. "We used'ta sit and watch 'em together on the weekends when he wasn't too beat from work or hungover. Watched dozens and dozens of 'em. His favorites was Eastwood and Fonda. 

"A'ways said that's what _real_ men are like. Tough guys that can do it all for themselves and don't need othas. Cowboys ain't cissies, and they sure as shit ain't felisians. Ya know there ain't ever been a felisian cowboy movie? Real cowboys, they don't got ears that get hurt when they shoot their guns, or stupid tails gettin' in the way when they's ropin'. And they can survive out in the Wild West, and they fight Indians and bandits all the time and win all the pretty ladies." 

"Mm, nothing like that classic toxic masculinity," Davey mutters wryly. 

The felisian chuckles, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, he weren't a fan when I decided I liked art," he says. "Stuff like that's for girls; men's s'posed to work with their hands. And sure didn't find it funny when I pointed out I draw with my hands." He snorts. "But those times we were gettin' along, when we was just watchin' Westerns and talkin' 'bout how good that life'd be, it felt _good_. And now it sucks 'cause I hate him, I do, but there was times like that that felt like havin' a real dad." 

"It's okay to feel that way, Jack," says Davey when Jack trails off into pained silence. "That man is a horrible human being, and he did horrible things to you, but that doesn't change the fact he's still your father." 

"I love Ma," Jack says firmly, voice thick. "I really, really do, and I wouldn't trade her for nothin'. But sometimes I still wish I got a dad too, ya know? Makes me feel awful, 'cause it ain't like I don't 'ppreciate everythin' Medda gimme, but just - sometimes it'd be nice to have a dad too. Feel like sometimes I missed learnin' how to be a good man 'cause I ain't had someone show me." 

The felisian growls in frustration, tipping his face more into Davey's side. "Like, maybe that's why I's so bad at bein' a boyfriend 'cause all I learned is way my dad was. And I'm scared ta' death 'bout bein' a dad someday 'cause what if I end up bein' like him there too?" 

"Hey, hey, Jacky, listen to me," Davey interrupts, twisting so he can cup Jack's cheek and force him to look up at Davey. It's dark enough in the room that Davey can't make out Jack's features, but he knows the felisian will be able to see the look on Davey's face. "You are not Francis, Jacky," Davey says adamantly. "You are _nothing_ like that man." 

"But I feel it sometimes," Jack counters, and a tear pools cooly against the curve of Davey's hand. "Things I say when I'm mad. The awful shit I's said _to you_ when I'm mad - I don't feel it, not really, but I still say it and it's somethin' he'd say and that ain't fair to treat ya like that." 

"But you don't feel it," Davey insists. "Everyone says things they don't mean when they're upset, Jack. You know I've done it too. And I know you don't mean it. Old habits that are hard to break, remember? But you're working on it, we're _both_ working on it, and it's gotten a lot better." 

Jack whines, annoyed, and he drags a hand into his hair. "It ain't fair makin' ya deal with it while I figure it out, though," he protests. 

"We're a couple, Jack," Davey says. "We're a team. We grow together, we figure this shit out together. Just like how you're helping me get better about being a control-freak and letting you help. Nobody goes into a real relationship as some magical perfect partner. There's no such thing as a perfect partner, but that doesn't mean you're not still perfect for me. Maybe you're not always great at being a boyfriend, and I'm not either, but we're working on it together, and it's worth the effort, don't you think?" 

The felisian gives another soft, distressed noise, and he leans into Davey's touch. Davey licks his lips, scared to stray into this territory they've never really discussed before, but he continues, "And someday if we-" Davey stops, clears his throat, and backtracks out of fear, "if you do decide to have kids, any kid would be lucky to have you as a dad." 

"I dunno how to be a good dad," Jack mumbles brokenly. 

Davey scoffs, shaking his head. "Of course you do," he argues. "Anyone who's ever seen you with your sister could tell that you'll be an incredible dad. I know it's the first thing I thought when I saw you two together." The felisian tips his head in Davey's palm, looking up toward Davey's face. "You are so nurturing and supportive and loving with her," Davey goes on, "and she adores you. Maybe you don't have a dad, but you've given Smalls one, and she's gonna grow up all the stronger for having you taking care of her." 

Jack whimpers and surges forward to press his face into Davey's chest, shuddering with a new wave of tears. "M'scared of messin' up."

"From what I've heard, that's just being a parent," Davey replies with a chuckle, cradling Jack against him. "But I mean, you want to be a social worker so you can protect other kids from ever going through what you did. Parents should want their kids to have a better life than they did, right? And the way you're so determined to save the kids who haven't been given their fair share, to make sure none of them get hurt or forgotten the way you did - it's one of the things I love most about you." 

The felisian extracts his face from Davey's chest enough to glance up at him. In the beam of light sneaking through a crack in the blinds, his eyes flash yellow for a moment. "It is?" he asks tremulously. 

"Absolutely," Davey confirms. "It's incredible. _You're_ incredible. You've got this strength and compassion, and awful as it is, I think some of that came from your childhood. So while I really do wish you'd never been put through all the horrible things that man did to you, I also think maybe those things are part of what made you into the Jack Kelly I fell in love with. And I wouldn't change a thing about that Jack for anything." Davey offers a teasing smile to soften the moment and adds, "Except maybe the fact you don't seem to understand how to hang up your towels after a shower."

Jack breaks out in a fit of watery giggles, and he rises up to claim Davey's mouth. When they part, Jack bumps his nose to Davey's affectionately. "What'd I ever do ta' deserve ya?"

"It's funny, 'cause I ask myself the same thing all the time," Davey replies, stroking Jack's cheek tenderly where he can feel the cool tear tracks that haven't completely stopped yet. Jack's ears snap forward, surprised. "Course I do," Davey says with a soft smile. "Not only are you this beautiful, charming, talented guy, but somehow you also put up with me being a neurotic control-freak. How could I _not_ feel lucky to find someone like that?" 

"Youse real good at that flattery thing," Jack remarks with a playful smirk. 

"Well, you know what they say," Davey says, shrugging. "Flattery can get you everything." 

Jack laughs. "Like I don't wanna give ya everythin' anyway," he says, and although it's probably meant to sound sarcastic, it's just fond. 

"Don't spoil me, you're gonna give me expectations," Davey jokes. The felisian snickers and flops his weight against Davey's chest, pushing him back down to where he can curl up in his spot. 

There's a long quiet moment, Jack obviously slipping back off into his thoughts, so Davey just pets the felisian's spine and waits. "D'you ever feel like ya missed somethin' 'cause you didn't have a dad when you were real li'l?" Jack asks tentatively. 

"A bit, sometimes," Davey admits. "When I first started school, sometimes kids would tease me because I was never as rough as the other boys. Teased it's because I didn't have a dad, that I was turning into a girl." 

Jack scoffs. "Anyone who's seen you in a fight'd know better than ta' call ya a girl." 

"Careful, Jack," Davey warns. "Sarah hears you say that, she'll show you that she's much handier in a fight than I am. Being a girl doesn't equal being bad at fighting." The felisian hums, conceding the point. Davey smirks and goes back to stroking Jack's shoulders. "It didn't really bug me much, though. I've always known I was a bit less masculine than the other boys. There's a reason people call me a twink." 

"I don't call you that," Jack says softly. 

Davey smiles, tipping his head to kiss Jack between the ears. "I know. But you know how people are, they like to put people in boxes. I'm the twink and you're the pretty kitty, right?" The felisian snorts a laugh. Davey chuckles along as he turns back to his original point. "So yeah, sometimes I wonder what might've been different if I had a dad when I was really little. But then part of me knows I probably still would've been a mama's boy. 

"And I know a lot of people think that's a bad thing, but I've never been bothered by it. My mom's an incredible and strong person. She was a single mom and a widow and still trying to finish nursing school while raising two babies. But she did everything she could to make sure we never felt it, that Sarah and I never missed out on things just because money was tight. So my mom's always been my hero, and if that makes me a mama's boy, oh well." 

Jack makes a soft, sad noise. "Never thought'a that. Must'a been hard for your ma." 

"I remember when I was little, sometimes I'd hear her crying when she thought we were asleep," Davey says quietly, eyes screwed up against the pain of the memories. "I was young, and I could never really understand why she was so sad, but I just tried to do whatever I could to make her smile." He chuckles weakly. "There was this night, I snuck outta bed because I could hear her crying, so I went out to hug her. We ended up spending the whole night listening to Frank Sinatra and making paper snowflakes to decorate the apartment until we both fell asleep on the sofa." 

"That's so cute," the felisian says adoringly, his tail thumping against Davey's thigh briefly. 

Davey hums an agreement. "So while I don't love the memories of hearing her so sad, I think it makes me appreciate Dad that much more because I could tell the difference when he came into our lives," he continues. "Dad made her happy, and I think I love him for that even more than I love him for everything he's done for me." He rubs circles into the base of Jack's ear. "Bad memories suck, but they make the good ones better, ya know?" 

"Yeah, guess so," Jack agrees thoughtfully. 

Smiling, Davey adds, "And I'm sure if you ever really want some fatherly advice, Dad wouldn't mind you calling him. He really likes you." 

Jack giggles and some of the tension relaxes out of his muscles, leaning heavier onto Davey's side. "He does?"

"He's already mentioned something about wanting you to come home with me for Thanksgiving this year," Davey confesses, and Jack's ears perk. "And Dad's a pretty good judge of character, so if he thinks you're good enough to bring into the whole family, I'm gonna trust him. Looks like you're stuck now, Jacky." 

The felisian hums and nuzzles Davey's ribs. "Oh bummer," he drawls sarcastically, and Davey laughs as he flicks the tip of Jack's ear. Jack curls his tail along the length of Davey's leg. "Love you, babe," he says sincerely. "I dunno how it happened, but I ended up with a pretty good life for a crazy alley kitten." 

"It's everything someone as good as you deserves," Davey murmurs and presses another kiss between Jack's ears. Davey wraps his arms more securely around the felisian, checking one last time that the blanket is tucked around his shoulders. "Get some sleep, Jack," he says softly. "I know you haven't been sleeping great, but I promise I've gotcha. I'm gonna make sure you're safe, okay?"

Davey knows that talking things out like this isn't going to just magically make Jack feel better. It's going to take a while for Jack to feel normal again; for the old wound that's been sliced open to scab over again. They haven't healed everything, but that Jack can even open up to him about these things is promising. They'll get through this. 

Jack rumbles and uncoils into Davey. "Know ya do," he whispers blearily, and as Davey rubs the felisian's ears gently, Jack drifts off into his first real sleep in weeks. 


End file.
